


Context and Collateral Damage

by sgam76



Series: Scheherezade 'verse [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming to terms with their childhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Misplaced Guilt, Missing Scene, Missing Scene from Long Walk Down a Dusty Road, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft wants to change, One Shot, Sherlock Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24154888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: After Sherrinford, everyone assumed that Sherlock had been the target--that his dangerously insane sister wanted her "possession" back, and would do whatever she needed to to make that happen. But in the process of reclaiming his life over the past few months, John Watson found out more information that put an entirely new slant on those events--one that Sherlock thinks his brother needs to hear.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Mycroft Holmes
Series: Scheherezade 'verse [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/559688
Comments: 25
Kudos: 81





	Context and Collateral Damage

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to take a tiny "breather" from These Old Shades to work something out in my head, so I went and rummaged through my List O' Stuff for something quick to write in the meantime. This, representing a conversation that several folks had asked to see, popped up first. In Long Walk Down a Dusty Road, John passed on to Sherlock info he learned from Eurus, info that dramatically changed the motivation behind Eurus' actions. John volunteered to have this needed conversation with Mycroft himself, but Sherlock insisted that he needed to be the one to do it.
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: Because this is enmeshed completely in Long Walk, you likely need to read that story first, or this one probably isn't going to make a lot of sense to you, though the conversation stands largely on its own if you're familiar with the larger Scheherezade 'verse. Dr. A, for reference purposes, is Sherlock's MI-6 therapist.

**_Invite me to dinner. SH_** , the text said. Just that, and nothing more, despite the lapse of nearly four hours between the time it was sent, and the time Mycroft actually had the first opportunity to take his phone out of his jacket pocket. It had been a particularly trying few days, with the latest round of vicious in-fighting about Brexit in full-throttle mode. The levels of spite and arrogance oozing from this newest batch of sycophants and yes-men surrounding the new PM set even Mycroft’s teeth on edge, but there was nothing for it but to sit, listen, and try to forestall the most catastrophic options proposed, with, at best, mixed results.

On reflection, a rousing set-to with his combative little brother might be just the thing to set Mycroft to rights.

 ** _Diogenes or home? MH_** , he sent back, and was somewhat shocked to get an immediate response.

 ** _Home is best. SH_** , Sherlock sent, as if he had been waiting impatiently for an answer. And that response sent a mild shimmer of concern across Mycroft’s nerve endings. If whatever was on Sherlock’s mind was serious enough that even a closed suite at the Diogenes wasn’t secure enough…

Speculation was pointless. The best solution was to have this meeting sooner rather than later, and resolve the issue definitively. He typed a quick response.

**_Tomorrow evening at 7. MH_ **

He waited one minute, two—no reply. But in this case silence meant consent. His next text was to his housekeeper, letting her know of the need for an expanded menu and an added place setting for the meal. Then he sighed, rose, and headed reluctantly back for his next dull, vulgar, unsatisfying meeting.

Sherlock was already ensconced in the study, small glass of brandy in hand, when Mycroft came in from the basement garage lift. Mycroft gave his brother a quick once-over before speaking; mildly agitated, but not distressed. He felt his own shoulders relax somewhat. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, adding just a hint of sarcasm. Their relationship required that, even if neither of them was feeling especially sarcastic.

“Information,” Sherlock said. No eye contact, so this “information” was making him uncomfortable. “Something you need to hear.”

Mycroft found himself uncharacteristically mystified. Sherlock had been in uncertain health, mentally and physically, for the past few months, and somewhat consumed with John Watson’s efforts to reclaim himself. He’d handled no cases that posed more than an intellectual challenge; his drug issues seemed to be subsiding, based on the limited information Sherlock had allowed his therapist to pass on to Mycroft. None of that, presumably, would have involved anything that had earlier been withheld, but that his brother now felt needed to be disclosed.

“Should we talk over dinner?” he asked, mainly to give himself more time to observe. “I believe shepherd’s pie is on the menu.” It was one of Sherlock’s favourites; he had had Mrs. Mason give the recipe to John Watson during Sherlock’s convalescence last year.

Sherlock put down the barely-touched brandy and rose. “May as well,” he said, without any kind of comment about Mycroft’s weight or diet. Again, somewhat concerning. Mycroft resolved to give his brother the opportunity to insult him a time or two in the course of the meal, just to help settle his nerves.

They served themselves; Mycroft had sent Mrs. Mason a message asking her to heat the meal once Sherlock arrived, and then depart. While Sherlock liked her, he was unlikely to be forthcoming about whatever was bothering him with a third party in the room.

Sherlock dished out a small (well, toddler-sized, to be honest) portion for himself, then proceeded to push most of it aimlessly about his plate while glaring at it. Mycroft sighed, applied himself to his own meal, and waited for his brother to speak. Mycroft was finished and had risen to go pick up the slices of apple strudel Mrs. Mason had left on the kitchen counter when Sherlock suddenly dropped his fork and looked up. Mycroft froze, then dropped back into his chair.

“It was all about you,” Sherlock said, brows knitted. “The…Sherrinford. She said.” His mouth opened, then shut. Nothing else came out, though it looked like he was trying.

“She?” Mycroft asked, largely to give himself time to muster his self-control. He knew who was almost certainly being referenced, of course, but he also knew that he was not immediately prepared to respond dispassionately. And the very last thing Sherlock needed was his brother becoming…irrational.

Sherlock lifted his eyes and scowled. “You know who I am referencing,” he snapped. “Don’t be coy.” But the interplay seemed to have calmed his nerves somewhat, so Mycroft would take that as a victory.

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed. “I would prefer not to discuss our sister in a social setting, but it seems that is inevitable. What did you learn, and where did you learn it?” For his own part, he would _prefer_ to never discuss their sister again, frankly. So long as she was safely contained and compassionately cared for, he would like it best to never again be reminded of her existence. But, like so many unpleasant truths, Mycroft had to acknowledge that his preferences were immaterial here, and most likely had been since the day his sister was born.

“John’s work with Dr. A,” Sherlock said, speaking rather faster than normal in his agitation. “He…the things Eurus had, her manipulations. John is, has, remembered. And one of the things he’s remembered. It wasn’t.” He stopped himself in frustration, then tried again. “She wasn’t focused on _me_.”

Mycroft felt that alarm shimmer across his nerves again. “But of course she was,” he said. “The entire thing, the scenarios—they all targeted you. I know you find this distressing, Sherlock, but it’s—”

“ _She told him_ ,” Sherlock near-shouted. “During the period when she was drugging and manipulating him. She told him the whole thing, and didn’t really care if or when he ultimately remembered. She didn’t expect him to survive, necessarily; she hoped that either I would kill him, or allow him to be killed, and then follow him.”

Mycroft felt his body twitch involuntarily at that. “But…she didn’t—wouldn’t want you _dead_ , Sherlock. As far as she’s concerned, you are _hers_.” That was the one thing Mycroft had taken away from the whole experience: Eurus continued to view Sherlock as her possession, and nothing would change that.

Sherlock made a noise that was almost, but not quite, a laugh. “She apparently decided that I am too ‘fragile’ to be useful,” he said bitterly. “So, if my death served her greater purpose, it was acceptable. She doesn’t have much interest in broken toys, after all.”

Mycroft felt as if he were being criminally slow. “But…her ‘greater purpose’ was to secure your attention. And she succeeded in that, though not, likely, with the results she preferred.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he said. “I was secondary—a means to an end, nothing more. _You_ were her target, from the very beginning. I believe, in one sense, she ‘gave’ me to Moriarty, as a way of enlisting his cooperation.” He paused, then continued. “John always blamed you for that, you know. I told him we planned it together, but the stories—in retrospect, there were elements in the newspapers that we didn’t discuss. So, if they didn’t come from you or I, and weren’t public knowledge…”

It was a question, even though it wasn’t phrased as one. “I didn’t review the stories at the time,” Mycroft said hesitantly. “Perhaps I should have. But how would she have known? She was removed from home at the age of 7, and I didn’t begin visiting her in person until, oh, almost 10 years later.”

Sherlock gave him a steady look. “And who did?” he asked. “Who visited, who would have known intimate family details? Who would have given that information to Eurus as a ‘treat’, or to secure her cooperation for some task?”

Everything abruptly slotted into place. “Rudy,” Mycroft said. “Of course. I realized, when I went to see him after Sherrinford, that he had had an ongoing policy of keeping her current with the ‘real world’ from the very beginning, despite there being no records of that having occurred. It was pragmatic, of course—how else could she accurately predict events in a world she was wholly apart from and unfamiliar with, except as a small child? But in the process, he would almost certainly have supplied her with information about your doings if she asked. Very likely had done so all along, so it wasn’t necessary for her to approach him for material to give to Moriarty—she already knew it all.” Because of course Rudy would see no reason not to tell her, even giving her information about Sherlock’s most painful episodes. Rudy didn’t _like_ Sherlock, after all, and would likely have gained vicious satisfaction in sharing the family dirty laundry with someone who knew the players involved. And Rudy knew the very worst, far more than the Holmes parents did—he had been, in some measure, Mycroft’s confidante in the years when Mycroft had been struggling to keep his brother alive and off drugs for more than two weeks at a time. Mycroft vividly remembered Rudy’s repeated advice: that Sherlock be cut off to fend for himself, that care for his brother was putting Mycroft’s career at risk.

“According to John, Rudy indirectly had a role in your becoming the next focus of Eurus’ vendetta as well,” Sherlock said, calmer now that the main secret had been broached. “You know, I’m sure, that Rudy never made any attempt at ‘treatment’ for her; he _used_ her, from an early age, and their relationship was transactional at best. He presented her with problems and information; if she solved them, he gave her lavish presents, some tangible, some not. I suspect that, if we made a deep dive into the CCTV archives of Sherrinford, we would find records of some of those ‘transactions’ that ended in the deaths of the other participants, not all of whom necessarily were involved voluntarily. But in between tasks, she was left largely alone, with limited resources for entertainment or stimulation, for extended periods of time. Either you or I would find that intolerable; I can’t begin to speculate on Eurus’ reaction, but it likely had some bearing on the 6 guards found dead in her cell over the years.”

Mycroft flinched again; he had resisting directly participating in the completion of such an in-depth review, but had seen a written summary and offered Sherlock a copy of the same: 6 deaths, 5 admissions to mental hospitals with uncertain prognoses, 11 serious injuries of support staff, over a period of roughly 25 years.

“So when Rudy retired from his position as Eurus’ ‘keeper’ and passed the responsibility on to you, she believed that things would improve: she would have more freedoms, more ‘treats’, more opportunities to interact with the larger world,” Sherlock continued. “She had definite expectations, she told John, and apparently believed that how things went going forward was your decision to make, as her brother. And then you decided nothing would change.”

“Not entirely accurate,” Mycroft said, uncomfortably realizing that he was, possibly, even more at fault in his sister’s treatment that he had thought. “Uncle Rudy said that things were appropriately structured, and I took him at his word. Despite Eurus, at least twice, voicing her dissatisfaction to me.”

Sherlock made a rude sound. “Please,” he said, “resist the urge to don yet another, heavier hair shirt. Our uncle conditioned you from childhood to accept his recommendations as gospel. And you, especially, would be sensitive to any such item bearing on Eurus—unlike me, you remember her as a child, and were justifiably terrified of her. Anyone with one iota of common sense would be. I escaped that fear, at least consciously, through what was essentially a psychotic break at age 6.” His tone carried a wry near-humour that shot through Mycroft’s nerves like acid.

“Don’t,” Mycroft said, almost involuntarily. “Please don’t make light of that. Any of it.”

Sherlock, to his credit, sobered instantly. “I wasn’t—at least, not in the way I believe you mean,” he said. “But John has informed me that graveyard humour can sometimes allow us to discuss horrible things without becoming lost in that horror.” He paused, looking carefully at his brother. “If it helps, I truly remember very little of her treatment of me, even now. The fire and its aftermath are a complete void.”

Mycroft thought about that. “I…I’m honestly not sure if that’s better or worse,” he said slowly. “Of all the things I lay at Eurus’ door, that is likely the worst. I know her mental illness is not her fault; I know, now, that Rudy used both Eurus and I to his own ends. But what she tried to do—to people who had done their best to love her, tried to help her find her way out of her own mind—” he shook his head, finding himself completely out of words to express what he felt.

“My doctor says that none of us can take responsibility for what Eurus is,” Sherlock offered carefully. “Nor expect to feel anything for her other than pity, realistically. Love, in this case, is an abstract at best, and not realistically attainable for either one of us. She wouldn’t understand the concept if we tried. I have few concrete memories of her; you felt you were ‘supposed’ to care for her, and were burdened with guilt when you realized you did not.”

“I did, once,” Mycroft felt compelled to say. “When she was small. Before it became so apparent what she was.” He thought about that. “Well, even after, for a time. As a child I spent many hours researching, looking for something that might offer at least a hope of improvement. I knew Mummy and Father would agree to anything that might help, short of institutionalizing her. Which, ironically, would have been the best thing to do, in hindsight.”

“What changed your mind?” Sherlock asked curiously. “Time? Uncle Rudy?”

“Her allowing you to fall from your treehouse when you were 5, and her subsequent manipulation of your broken arm*,” Mycroft said, unable to suppress a shudder at the memory. “She was largely open about it; hadn’t yet learned reliably when it was necessary to lie. Do you remember it at all? You spent several days in hospital after the surgery.”

Sherlock pulled into himself momentarily. After a long pause, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Beyond a very brief flash of not being allowed to play outside for some time, and wearing a cast, I think.” He touched his right upper arm. “I presume that’s where the scar comes from. John asked me once, and I wasn’t sure.”

Mycroft nodded. “I told Mummy, you know—told her what Eurus did. She was…it made Mummy more careful of leaving you alone with Eurus, but I couldn’t convince her that Eurus did it intentionally. Mummy said that Eurus simply didn’t understand. Partially true, of course, but no less damning, since Eurus simply didn’t _care_ to understand.” It sounded like an apology, he realized; in a sense, it was.

Sherlock made an uncertain sound. “It wasn’t your responsibility, Myc,” he said softly. “None of it was.”

Mycroft felt his temper flare. “Then whose was it?” he snapped.

“No one’s, if my doctor is to be believed,” Sherlock said, surprisingly calmly. “I asked him a related question, at one point: why did some of these things happen to us, to me? What had I done, had _we_ done, to merit them?”

Sherlock paused, long enough for Mycroft, still tense, to lose patience. “And?” he said harshly, with a sneer in his voice. “What was his ‘therapeutic’ take on the issue?” He was being unfair; he knew it, and couldn’t manage to stop.

Sherlock, maddeningly, grinned. “To quote Gabe Austin, ‘shit happens’,” he said. “And before you flay me alive—what that means is, none of us bear any blame for our childhoods. Not even Eurus—she is what she is, it’s not something she chose. And all of us—well, those of us rather older than me, since I wasn’t yet at a point where I could make conscious, rational choices—simply reacted to forces imposed upon us by the world. You can call it ‘fate’, if you like—through an accident of birth, literally, we were placed in Eurus’ orbit. Even our parents—it’s not like they had any foreknowledge of what would happen. They, so you’ve said, searched extensively for aid, as did you. That none of that helped isn’t their fault; that, very likely, _nothing_ would have helped isn’t really Eurus’ fault either. If anyone bears any blame here, it’s Rudy, for deciding to exploit a vulnerable, brilliant child while making no effort whatsoever to meet her emotional or developmental needs, however little difference such efforts might have made. And for deceiving a second, older child into joining that effort, and extending that deception for decades.”

Mycroft blinked. What could he say, to that startlingly accurate summation? From _Sherlock_ , of all people?

Sherlock smirked again. “Surprised, then? As John has been known to say, ‘even the Devil can quote scripture’—I guess in this instance, even I can quote therapists.” He was looking quite pleased with himself.

Mycroft felt himself relax, ever so slightly. “I think ‘surprised’ is a fair summation,” he said, with a rueful smile. “While I know you are capable of making sound judgments on occasion, it’s not typically one of your strengths.” He paused, then continued, speaking carefully. “And it’s rare for you to accept outside aid in such matters—not that I’m unhappy that you’ve done so. I believe we owe Dr. A a debt of gratitude.”

“’We’?” Sherlock sniffed, mildly offended now. “I wasn’t aware it was a group endeavour.”

“Indirectly so,” Mycroft said. “Those of us who care for you.” Because, as a result of recent revelations, Mycroft had decided that he would no longer deny caring about the small group of people he, well, _loved_. Nearly losing all had tipped Mycroft from his emotional moorings; he was still undecided what form his replacements would take, but already knew they would be very, very different.

Sherlock’s cheekbones grew pink. “Well that’s hardly playing fair,” he said finally.

Mycroft smiled again. “No,” he said. “Likely not.” He stood up again, and gestured towards the kitchen. “Pudding?” he asked blandly—as well as expectantly.

“Of course,” Sherlock sneered. “The typical arrangement—three pieces for you, and one for me. It takes work to maintain that amount of bulk, after all.”

And Mycroft walked to the kitchen with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> *As told in All Along the Watchtower


End file.
